Emerging Purpose
by fufulupin
Summary: Oneshot in which Maureen contemplates the past. Rated mostly for language.


Disclaimer: Not mine. Jon's. Forever and for always, the way I see it.

A/N: Geez. Another angstier piece. I think standardized tests are rotting my soul; I've had MEAPs all week and the ACT looms ahead for the weekend. I suppose it's true what they say: life reflects art. Heh. Anyway, I didn't plan this fic in the slightest. I've never considered exploring April at all, let alone her friendship with Maureen, but I had nothing to do in school today so…here ya go. The ending doesn'tquiteseem to fit with the rest of the mood, I think, butit was the only wayI could think of tofinish this off. (By the way, there's a little Mojoish fluff tossed in there. I couldn't resist.)

The first thing I noticed was the razor in her hand. It didn't gleam, or shine, or sparkle. It wasn't by any means a _pretty _object. It was worn. Rusted. Broken.

Like April.

Darting forward, I smacked the blade from her. It fell, almost in slow-motion, from her fragile fingers to clatter noisily against the bathroom tile. Her gaze, almost soulless as it was, rotated slowly from her hand to my face.

"What'd you do that for?" she asked dully. I could hear the hollow disinterest in a voice that had always been filled with such spunk and energy. My heart snapped.

"Me?" I shot back, fear translating to outrage. "What the hell are _you _doing?"

She smiled, humorless. "Well, I'm not shaving."

It wasn't funny. _She _wasn't funny. The minute that blade entered my field of vision, reality bitch-slapped me: this, my life, wasn't a game anymore.

"I can _see _that," I heard myself snarl back, responding to her sarcasm in a manner I rarely resorted to. "_Why?_"

She shrugged, making choppy red hair dance against shoulders thinned from too little food and too many doses of powder. "'Cuz it doesn't matter. None of this…doesn't matter."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "_Doesn't matter_? April, have you lost your mind?"

She lowered her head and it occurred to me that calling a suicidal person crazy to their face probably wasn't the best rescue tactic I could employ. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

"I'm sorry. Can…can we at least _talk_ about this?"

I thought I saw her tremble slightly. "What's to talk about?"

_Oh, I dunno. Maybe the RAZOR AT YOUR FEET!_

"Is it Roger?" I asked cautiously. "Has he been all…Roger-like lately?"

She chuckled. "No, it's not him."

"Mark, then? Has he been getting on your nerves?"

She looked surprised. "Mark? Mark's a sweetheart."

I nodded thoughtfully, cursing myself for letting my own problems sneak into the conversation. "Yeah. Yeah, he is. But…if it wasn't them…" A horrible thought erupted in my mind. "Did _I _do something?"

Her expression grew soft. For a second, I saw a hint of the real April hiding within this sickly shell. She shook her head.

"Of course not, hon. It isn't anyone. Things are just…building up, I guess. Too much, too fast. Everything's gotten so fucked up that I don't know where to turn—"

"So turn to me," I said fiercely. "Or to Roger. Hell, turn to _Benny_, for all I care, just…anywhere else, okay?"

Her head was still shaking. "You don't understand."

"No, I _don't_." I could hear my voice hitting the shrillest of pitches and willed my body to relax. "I don't," I repeated in more civil tone. "You've got problems, sure. Lots of 'em, maybe more than most people. But why would you try to rip it all away? Pain hurts, yes, but how else do we know we're _alive_?"

She was silent. I, on the other hand, couldn't seem to stop the words rattling off my tongue like gunfire.

"This is the _world_, April. Things build up and we _hurt_. Do you think I don't feel like shit all the time? I'm tired constantly, I'm always cold, I'm always alone. I don't go a day without thinking, 'God, I hate my life. I just want to die.' _Everyone _has those thoughts. But _thinking _something is not the same as going through with it. It's _okay_ to hurt, and to cry, and to feel like your head is coming apart. But you've got to stick with it. When you hate your mother, your father, you brother, your boyfriend, you best friend, you keep going. If only to spite the fuckers."

She giggled through a wave of glass tears. Feeling a bit better, I continued.

"The thing of it is, April, that's the best part about being human: you can make the choice to piss people off. You can wake up in the morning and stretch and think such delightful thoughts as, 'Exactly how obnoxious can I be today?' And then you can go on your way figuring out the answer to that question. It's beautiful. It's the reason God put us here: to annoy the living hell out of each other."

She was laughing now, I roar of sound that shook her small frame and made her bend at the waist to gulp air. I drank in the sound; I was winning. As incoherent as my babbling was, it was getting _through_ to her.

"Do you see?" I asked, taking one of her cool hands in my own. "Am I making sense here? Because, really, you're the only person who has ever understood me and if that's gone, I'm lost."

The laughter halted, but her smile looked genuine for the first time in weeks. "You make perfect sense, sweetie. Thank you." Tugging on my hand, she pulled me into a tight hug. "Thank God you were here," she added against my shoulder. "If you hadn't come in, I would've—"  
Dark.

It's dark, suddenly. My eyes are open, but the bathroom's gone. April's gone. The arms around my waist belong, not to my best friend, but to my lover. She squirms in her sleep, nuzzling into my neck with her nose. I shiver.

A dream. Always a dream. I bite down on my lip to hold in the sob. Beside me, Joanne stirs slightly, opening one eye so dark, it looks black.

"You okay, baby?" she asks sleepily, slurring the words endearingly. I shake my head and she sits up enough to look into my face. Her expression is protective, as usual. Sometimes, her nurturing instincts drive me crazy. Tonight, I need her to be this strong.

"I dreamt about her again," I whimper. Her arms enclose me, lips pressing against my temple. I don't need to explain further. This is the one "her" Joanne will never be jealous of.

"It's all right," she murmurs, holding me close. I can feel myself trembling against her, can feel the way her arms try to filter warmth from her body into mine. She doesn't quite see, it seems, that it's not the cold rattling my teeth, but I don't care. I only burrow closer.

I want to tell her it isn't "all right". April was my friend. April was alone and scared, and I didn't notice. April had HIV on her conscience. April had that razor, and I wasn't there to slap it away. I couldn't talk her out of it. I could only crumple on that bathroom floor, her blood seeping into the knees of my jeans as I screamed, as Mark shoved me aside and tried to resuscitate a dead woman. I could only hide my eyes as they wheeled her body out. I could only think of how I should have been there, a thousand scenarios painting themselves on my brain as to how I could've changed the outcome of her simple resignation.

The dreams had stopped for a long time. Since I'd dumped Mark, since I'd taken up residence in Joanne's life. But when Angel died…

She's fully awake now, and, even though it's four in the morning and she's got work in a few hours, she doesn't seem to mind sitting in this bed, cradling me, rocking me and murmuring soft wounds that stroke against my ears as gently as her hands ever could. I think she's singing; slowly, I let my eyes close.

The only blessed thing about these dreams, I think sleepily, is the way they never hit twice a night. When I see April once, that's it; sometimes for as long as a week at a time.

In a strange, morbid way, I'm glad to have the dreams. It feels almost like April's way of reminding me of the dangers of my own self-absorption. They serve as a tool, reminding me to pay attention. If I ever get another chance to stop what I should have stopped for April…

They all tell me not to blame myself. Even Roger admits it wasn't my fault. The truth of the matter is, though, that I don't mind thinking I should have been the one to notice. Everyone else has a purpose: Mark sees, Roger writes, Collins knows, Joanne acts.

I never had a purpose before. These days, I'm beginning to see one emerging from all the protests and flirting and the other stupid shit I spend my days pulling. I can help the people in my life. I can do what I couldn't for April. And, someday, I might even be able to save one of them.

I think sometimes that's why April appears to me in these dreams. Not to mock me for where I failed, but to force me to open my eyes to succeed in the future. April always believed in me while she was alive. It's a nice thought, that she might still be keeping that faith.


End file.
